


Kissed By Fire

by lightofdaye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Death Fix, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons, ressurection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightofdaye/pseuds/lightofdaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has been betrayed by his men. But the Red God is not finished with Lord Snow and neither is his servant</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissed By Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The first ASoIaF fanfic I ever wrote, just after I finished finished reading _A Dance With Dragons_ in May 2012 (didn't get the book for ages after it came out). What I consider a possible solution to the ending of Jon's last chapter but with a sexual twist thrown in for fun.

  
_When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first in the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…_  
  
It flooded through him, freezing his limbs and his eyes so all was white like the mist or the sight of a snow storm where the flakes filled the air so you could not tell one from the other. Without the sight of the world Jon’s perspective warped and skewed, his limbs felt light and he did not seem to be supported but ground.  
  
He never felt the fourth knife. Was this it? Was he dead already? Or was just the way a man saw things in those seconds as his life slipped away.  
  
It had just been so… sudden. One moment he had been in the middle of a catastrophe, the latest in a long string of catastrophes; never ending catastrophes that stretched back to standing in his courtyard and seeing snow melt in his brother’s auburn hair. No Before that even…  
  
Jon’s thread of the thought tattered and frayed in an instant and lost. The cold swallowed him, again. Pure whitness.  _The cold brings the Others_  Jon remembered  _or else the Others bring the cold._  He saw the image of himself, his pale and bloodless and colourless, all except his black hands and his grey eyes, burning blue.  
  
Was that it? Had he died and would nevertheless rise again? He wondered what wights knew, chained them up ice cells to test them. Now he might be finding out first hand? The thought broke through the malaise that had ensnared Jon’s might and fresh emotion burst through his chest; fear and horror consumed him. He recoiled and flexed away from the wight that wore his face, to claw and kick at it with his limbs. He wanted to scream, his mouth opened…  
  
He breathed in fire.  
  
And he screamed on the exhale.  
  
His eyes snapped open and reality crashed back down around him. He was lying on a straw pallet in a stone walled room he didn’t know. Every muscle felt cold and hard and ached terribly.  
  
He lifted his head with tremendous effort and could see his breath on the air but it was not the mist of cold air, but dark and heavy like smoke from a fire and he saw someone looking down on him; someone with coppery red hair.  
  
 _Kissed by fire_  he thought, he lifted his hand towards the woman.  
  
“Ygritte…” He whispered, hoarsely. But that was wrong, Ygritte had never worn womanly robes or owned such a ruby as adorned this figure’s throat.  
  
His head sank back down to the bed and before he could figure things out unconsciousness overtook him and this time at least he fell to blissful unknowing darkness.  
  
*  
  
Much later, he regained consciousness again. He was still lying in the same room, this time he was covered in some musty brown furs. He was warmer than he had been but not warm. The cold was still there… waiting. The woman was still there as well, though Jon was sure she must have left while he was unconscious at some point. He knew her name this time.  
“Melisandre” he croaked through a parched throat.  
  
“Lord Snow,” Melisandre said, inclining her head in polite acknowledgement as she might if they happened to meet in the yard at Castle Black.  
  
“Water?” He asked and Melisandre handed him a horn of water. It hurt to drink any more than a sip at a time but eventually his mouth was moist enough to say;  
  
“Where I am?”  
  
“A Holdfast abandoned by the Flints years ago and forgotten until I saw it in my fires. Do not worry Lord Snow, only true believers, man this castle. Not your men in black.”  
  
“My… my men. They…”  
  
“Killed you. Many days ago now.” Melisandre said flatly. Jon stared at her in disbelief and her red eyes looked back at him unwavering and free of deception.  
  
“You mean they left me for dead,” Jon corrected her.  
  
“You know nothing Jon Snow,” Jon felt a shiver pass through him as Melisandre spoke to him in Ygritte’s words. “You were stabbed by fellow Brothers, thrice. You fell but before they could finish you the giant, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, charged the crowd and scattered them. In the aftermath, I found your body in the yard.”  
  
“I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m talking to you.” Jon said angrily. Melisandre continued mercilessly.  
“Take a look at your chest, Lord Snow, see what your brothers did to you.”  
  
Trembling but still defiant, Jon pulled up the tunic that covered his chest and saw it. High on his belly was an ugly wide scar. He remembered Bowen Marsh punching him. Remembered pulling out the dagger and seeing the smoking wound. He must have done as much damage pulling out as Bowen had putting it and he hadn’t felt it at time. His flesh puckered and twisted in a knot of white tissue and Jon knew enough about sword play to see that it should have been a mortal wound.  
  
He shook and goose bumps suddenly formed all over his flesh; the cold was back. Gnawing at him, and he shivered convulsively. Only then did Melisandre begin to look the slightest bit worried. She darted forward and laid a hand on Jon’s forehead. It was amazingly warm.  
  
“This was too soon,” she said. “Rest now, Jon.”  
  
He wanted to say he’d rested enough but his eyes dropped regardless.  
  
*  
  
The third time he woke up, he expected Melisandre to be there. She did not disappoint. A small frown creased her brow as she looked down at him.  
  
“You look worried my lady.” He said softly.  
  
“Pay it no mind Lord Snow. How do you feel?”  
  
“Pretty good… For a dead man.” Jon said, dryly as he laboriously pulled himself up into a seated position.  
  
“Believe it or not, you died Jon Snow. I gave you the last rites of my order. A fiery kiss of death. Yet as I breathed fire into your lungs, I felt your chest move again and you attempted to throw me off you. Never before have I seen such happen. The Lord of Light still has plans for you I think, Lord Snow.”  
  
“Really? Then why do I feel so cold?”  
  
Melisandre’s frown deepened at that and she approached him again placing a hand to his face. The touch of her skin on his sent a sudden shock. He gasped and pulled back slightly but Melisandre did not release him.  
  
“You are not wrong. The cold is still in you, Lord Snow. It is the touch of the other’s hand.”  
  
The other? Jon thought. Did she mean the white walkers, or the second god she believed in; the god of darkness.  
  
But Melisandre seemed to have come to a decision.  
  
“There is another ritual of my order that may be of some help, Jon Snow. If you will permit it?”  
  
“What do I have to lose, my lady?” replied Jon, expecting her to suggest nothing more than prayer, or the lighting of a fire.  
  
Instead she leant in and kissed him.  
  
Jon’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to object. Instead to only served to let her tongue into her mouth. She even tasted hot, he thought. Her breathe was warm and sweet and with a spicy undertone.  
  
One of her hand’s griped his head firmly holding it in place while her tongue delved into his mouth. The other went exploring, tracing the lines of his chest lower and lower. Excitement rushed through Jon, he didn’t understand why Melisandre was doing this and at that second he couldn’t much care. This felt natural and right and good. It was oathbreaking of course but Jon was no stranger to that. He’d been killed for it already, after all.  
  
He hadn’t been wearing much in his sickbed, just a tunic and small clothes. Melisandre quickly stripped him of them, as easily as she stepped out her own red robes. Jon gazed at her in awe, she had a woman’s body; with wide hips and full breasts that gave her breathtaking curves.  
  
As confused as Jon’s thoughts were, it didn’t stop his body from performing its and his manhood jutted up from his body stiffly and proudly. Melisandre wasted no time in mounting him. Jon could only let out a ragged gasp of pleasure as she sank herself down on him.  
  
She rode him, rolling her hips so the friction sent thunderbolts of sensation through him, tightening his stomach with tension. Her hands roved his chest and arms and her touch spread warmth through Jon’s body, fighting away the cold and lethargy. The look she was giving him was more intense and determined than passionate but every now and then she made a small noise of exertion, of effort.  
  
The noises were fascinating to Jon. Melisandre always seemed so controlled she was almost otherworldly. The noises told another story. They spurred Jon into action. Reach up to clasp her breasts. They were full and soft and were capped with pink nipples hardened into peaks.  
  
Melisandre groaned again, her hands found his head and pulled it towards her, moving Jon to a more upright position. His arms wrapped around her waist, keeping her movements balanced on him while his face ended up buried in her tits. Kissing and sucking at them eagerly. Melisandre’s grip tightened on his head and she threw her head back and half-screamed as her innards clenched around him in pleasure.  
  
The scream was like setting a flint to kindling for Jon, its set his desire on fire. She collapsed weakly into his arms and he turned, pushing her down onto the bed so their positions were reversed.  
  
Her legs were spread and hooked over his hips as he drove into her. He could hardly help himself now. His mouth closed down over hers, locking his gaze to her red eyes from the range of a couple of inches. His hips worked like pistons thrusting into her at fever pace. Her flesh was hot beneath him and releasing her lips he buried his head in her coppery hair, kissed by fire.  
  
“Jon. Jon. Jon!” He could hear her moan, almost out of control as he was now.  
  
Her Nails raked across his back and Jon swore she must be gouging chunks of flesh out of him but he didn’t mind. Warmth and pain. Two ways you knew you were alive.  
  
“Melisandre!” He moaned her name as he came, shooting a hot spurt of seed into her a few last hard thrusts.  
  
As quick as the energy had arisen in him, it left and he sank gratefully into Melisandre’s arms. There he was safe and there for , the first time in years, he felt warm.  
  
*  
  
Melisandre awoke slowly. It was an unaccustomed sensation for her. She had not used a bed since King Stannis left to go south to fight the Ironmen and Roose Bolton and she had not slept in one for longer still.  
  
But after what she had done with Jon Snow, she know she would need many more night’s sleep to recover her energy. It was strange with Stannis she had taken his life fires and spawned nothing but death and destruction. Now she had given of her own fire and life and creation had sprung forth. A part of seemed to prefer it that way.  
  
Jon Snow was not in the bed or the room. Calmly, Melisandre dressed. She was not worried. She did not think he would have gone far. The Lord Of Light had a plan for the both of them, she knew and Jon would feel himself in her dept. He would not steal away in the night and deny that. Perhaps now, he believed, if not in the Lord himself in her power and her ability to find his sister.  
  
In the end she found him standing on the battlements of the small holdfast’s tallest tower. He stared out over crenulations, arms folded and stern implacable look on his long face as looked over the view of the wolf’s wood that stretched to the horizon.  
  
“Lord Snow,” She said by way of greeting.  
  
“Don’t call me that,” He said firmly.  
  
“My lord?”  
  
“I’m not a lord. My vows were very clear. ‘now my watch begins. It will not end until my death.’ You say I died. In that case my oaths are fulfilled. I’m no longer a part of the Night’s Watch. Let alone its Lord Commander.”  
  
Melisandre looked Jon up and down. He was wearing thick woollen breeches, a leather jerkin studded with iron and a heavy sheepskin cloak. None of it was dyed. None of it was black.  
  
“So what will you do now?” She asked, lightly.  
  
Jon reached out and touched her hand lightly.  
  
“I thought you might have some ideas.”  
  
Melisandre smiled. The Lord’s work would be done by them. Together.


End file.
